


Learning to Love the Hawk I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: The year is 1983, the place is Soviet Russia.





	Learning to Love the Hawk I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Learning to Love the Hawk I: Through The Red Doors by Spike

"Learning to Love the Hawk I: Through The Red Doors"  
by Spike   
1/99  
Disclaimer: None of these X-files characters belong to me, my intentions are entirely gormless.   
Rating: NC-17 for mature themes, sexual situations and violence.   
Spoilers: None   
Summary: The year is 1983; the place is Soviet Russia. Author's notes: This is the first part of my origin story for Krycek. It's also a kind of a prequel for "The End of Pain". It's not necessary to have read that story to get this one, but if you want to it's at my webpage at: http://avalon.net/~nonie/spike/spindex.htm   
WARNING: This is a WIP. The sequel is in the works. Please bear with me, I'm dancing as fast as I can. Archive: Not yet. Technical note: [[Dialogue in double square brackets is being spoken in Russian,]] and: "Dialogue in double quotes is being spoken in English."  
Translation note: I've thrown a word or two of Russian in for flavor, so here is a wee glossary: pajalista = 'please'; goluboy='blue' (slang equivalent of english 'gay' or 'homosexual'; golubaya lenta='blue ribbon' (a man who willingly takes a passive sexual role with other men, specifically in the gulags); petuh='whore' (or more specifically, the equivalent of a man who 'punks up' in prison or in the army.); moi='my'; lublyushka='little loved one'.  
Thanks & Acknowledgements: To Ladonna for encouragement and fine first beta and to Nonie for kindness, tolerance and beta thru delta well above and beyond the call of duty.  
Feedback: uh-huh, public or private, to Spike <>  
Okay, enough with the massive preamble. Story ahoy... 

* * *

"Learning to Love the Hawk I: Through The Red Doors"  
by Spike

Stockade, 16th Spetsnaz Brigade, Chuchkovo Moscow Military District,   
U.S.S.R October 12, 1983

The ratchet clang of a baton over steel bars woke him. Dragged him up through the cold, gray sludge of a toxic waste hangover and flung him down on a familiar, comfortless cot.

[[Hey, Hollywood...]] a guard boomed. Clang, clang.

Alex groaned, grabbed his head before the sound shattered it. Fragmentes of the night before bubbled up like swamp gas. Drinking? Oh yes, definitely drinking. Ural urine -- the moldy potato-skin squeezings that passed for moonshine here. Nothing like the smoky, shimmering liquid dynamite he'd snuck back home. Russian moonshine was brain-cell Raid -- tastes like roach piss and it kills those pesky neurons dead, dead, DEAD...

Clang. [[Come on, Marilyn Monroe. Beauty sleep's over. Get your lazy American ass out of bed...]]

[[Fuck off!]] Alex thought and then heard the echo of the words in English in his head. Almost meaningless these days. And it hurt. He pulled the thin blanket up over his face. It cut the razor shear of the light but left his naked feet cold and exposed.

Fuck. Naked. He was naked. A sharp rush of fear washed through him, icing his nerve endings. Bad news memory nuzzled at the edge of his conscious grasp.

Last night.

Dark. Cold. Black sky and stars. There'd been music and dancing -- a piss-up, an end-of-mission wild night. And the boys of Spetznas Unit Spider were ready to party hearty. Bare feet cold on the crisp grass. Dusky poisonous tang of the homemade vodka in his mouth and, God, he'd been drunk. Falling against them, hard bodies under green fatigues. Laughing. The smell of men; of sweat and alcohol, dark tobacco and testosterone...and something else. Chemical tang. That thing with the tape -- those Chechen boys had brought it. Fat rolls of gray industrial adhesive tape. They'd pulled it off in strips.

[[Come on, American pussy, try it. This is how real Russians get off. You want to be a real Russian soldier, neh? Real hard core?]]

Yeah. Real. God he wanted to be *real*. So, yes...yes...and Alex remembered strong arms holding him, the acid sting of a sharp knife sliding across his scalp, blood dribbling in his eyes and tape slapped on the cut. And...

Clang. Clang. [[Whoo-hoo. Give us a peep show, Marilyn...]]

Christ, whatever the hell it was, the rush had hit him like a swarm of bees. A buzzing, golden riptide that poured through his scalp, prickling and stinging and lifting him off his feet...He remembered turning, spinning, round and round, his eyes clicking open and shut like camera lenses; burning still frames of the night into his brain: dancing, singing, tearing off his kit.... Grabbing Danylo. [[Dance with me, Dany... Pajalista... please.]] And Dany had. Taken him up in strong arms, whirled round and round the fire and he'd... Christ... he had, hadn't he? Forgotten where he was, who he was with, what he was supposed to be... What he was supposed to *not* be.

Alex groaned helplessly, clutched himself, shivering under the thin blanket, remembering -- he'd pressed his lips into the soft curve of Dany's neck, tasted the salt of Dany's flesh. Dany hard against his hip. But Dany had pushed him off...

No, it had to be a dream. He *couldn't* have. He couldn't...

Oh, but he had. Memory relentless now, flowing into fill the etched, corroded chamber of his skull: Himself naked, hard, wanton [[Dany, please...]] he'd begged through teeth clenched in desperation. And all around him laughing, hooting, clapping. A circle of naked cocks around the fire and he'd... he'd...

Hangover sludge shifted in his gut -- a long, slow, gray wave of nausea that heeled him over, dragged him down to the floor. The blanket fell away and naked, on his hands and knees, he vomited -- copiously and violently -- to a flat and distant chorus of cheers and boos that could have come from nearby cells or from the memories he couldn't shake.

It must have stopped. He must have fallen back into sleep, because banging woke him again. This time he was curled up on the icy, stinking floor, blanket clutched between his knotted fists.

Clang. Clang. Clank. The scream of parched hinges as the cage door swung open.

[[On your feet, soldier.]] The voice was a hammer. Sgt. Kolya's hammer. Jesus. Kolya. Alex had already made the acquaintance of the Sergeant's fists and boots.

Get the fuck *up*! his inner coward shrieked. He pulled the blanket up, tried again to rise. Made it to his knees again. Two pairs of polished black boots under his chin and the whole fucking universe still spinning, spiraling, coring his braincase like a drill-bit through clay.

[[Unghh....]] he managed but nothing more and was grateful enough that he wasn't spewing on the Sergeant's boots.

[[Dog,]] said the Sergeant. The booted foot pulled back and Alex cringed.

[[Leave him,]] said a calm and quiet voice. Another officer's voice, but this one was cultured, educated. Smooth as real Stoli in a lead crystal tumbler. The booted foot hesitated in mid-arc; returned reluctantly to the concrete floor. Alex forced his thousand pound head up, raised his lead-weighted eyes to see the man who had saved him.

He saw -- rank and power. Crisply ironed khakis, heavy wool coat, peaked cap. The face under the cap was bland, pleasant -- the skin smooth but not young; the hair light but not gray. Everything bland and calm. Only the man's eyes held any intensity -- dark blue and glittering, like sapphires in cream. The eyes gazed down on him from a hundred miles up. The effort of returning the look was suddenly too much. A sick shiver ran through Alex from heels to crown and he dropped his head.

[[Disgusting piece of filth,]] spat Kolya. [[If the army weren't so much in need of chaff to toss at the mujahadin...]]

[[Yes, Sergeant,]] said the calm voice. [[Every man can be made useful.]] A gloved hand came down, lifted Alex's chin. Alex squeezed his eyes shut, whimpered at the touch, but no blow came. Then the hand released him.

[[Let him sleep this off,]] the calm voice went on. [[When he's sober, get him cleaned up and ready for my order.]] There was a moment's hesitation, then:

[[Sir,]] said Kolya. [[His punishment...]]

[[Will be attended to,]] the calm voice said, with finality. And then with a clanking and clinking that rattled through his brittle bones, they left him alone and Alex sank back into the dizzy misery of his dreams.

***

He dreamed he was back in America. His old house, his mother's kitchen. Sunny summer day outside and a breeze billowing the curtains. In his dream he was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting, for what he didn't know. Not impatient, not excited, not scared. Just waiting, in the warm, bright kitchen that smelled faintly of stale tobacco, knowing there was nothing he could do.

***

Seven hours of sleep, a tin cup of cabbage soup and a cold shower later, Alex found himself standing in front of a closed oak door, deep inside officer country. His fatigues were clean and he'd shaved. A little bruised; a little battered, still shaky as hell, but he was more or less on his feet, which was better than he had any right to expect.

What he was doing here, he wasn't entirely sure. Sergeant Kolya hadn't said why he was to report to this man, Peskow. Kolya hadn't said much of anything besides who, where and when, but the strained formality with which he'd said it put a leaden chill into Alex's bones.

Fucked. Really fucked. If Kolya didn't care enough to kick his ass, it meant he was out of here. Out of Spetznas altogether, probably, and on his way to Afghanistan or to gulag duty in fucking Siberia. Jesus. He pressed the heel of his hand into the ache just above the bridge of his nose. Let his fingers trace the hot swell of the knife cut through his buzzed hair, unable to stave off the images that rose up in his memory. Idiot. Idiot. Bloody fucking idiot. Faggot whore to the bone and the Colonel had been right...had been...

Tears welled, hot under his lids and, suddenly stone-cold furious with himself, he blinked them back, scrubbed mercilessly at his traitorous eyes and knocked, with more force than he really needed, on the unprepossessing door.

It opened. The man on the other side was... not a hundred feet tall. Alex wasn't sure why that surprised him, but it did. He was expecting to be met by a giant. Instead he found himself facing a man maybe an inch shorter than himself; a man of indeterminate middle age, with reddish-blonde hair and dark blue eyes set in a bland and pleasant face. He looked fit and relaxed in khaki fatigues, standing with an open book in one hand, eyebrows slightly raised as if in question.

[[Private Arntzen, reporting as ordered...Sir.]] Alex stumbled a little over the 'sir'. Kolya had called the man Peskow, but had given no rank, and there were no pips or insignia on his kit. Still, Alex knew rank when he saw it. And he saw it here.

[[Comrade Arntzen,]] the man -- Peskow -- said, pleasantly. [[Come in. I've been expecting you.]] The mildness took him aback -- he'd expected a sterner welcome.

The room into which Alex stepped was the usual modestly appointed barrack office. It contained a desk, a couple of chairs, a file cabinet, a well-stocked bookshelf. Everything neat and tidy and well-worn with use. There was a yellow personnel folder on the desk and next to it, a tray on which sat a steaming teapot and two china cups.

Peskow motioned Alex towards the visitor's chair, and then seated himself behind the desk.

[[I trust you're feeling better?]] Peskow asked, not unkindly. Alex felt embarrassment flush his cheeks and his stomach roiled a little.

[[Yes, sir,]] he lied.

[[Good,]] said Peskow. [[Will you pour us tea?]]

[[Yes, sir.]] Alex poured, shaky handed, but instead of taking the tea, Peskow opened the personnel file in front of him and began to peruse it. The silence stretched. Alex sipped at his own tea. It was hot and felt surprisingly good on his raw throat. Still Peskow didn't look up from his reading. The file was thick and Alex's uneasiness grew. His eyes felt grainy and heavy; his mouth was sour. His gut fluttered and rolled.

///Christ, get *on* with it!// he thought fiercely at the man behind the desk. //Ream me. Cut me loose. Something...// He didn't even know if he cared what, anymore. A half a dozen times he opened his mouth to say so, but the words never managed to come. There was something intimidating about the quiet, pleasant calm. Still, tension wound him like a string and just at the point where he thought he would have to speak or die, Peskow closed the file and looked up at him.

[[Do you know who I am?]] Alex hesitated before answering. He knew the man's name, suspected his rank; even thought his face, with its neutral expression and sharp eyes, was vaguely familiar. But...

[[No, sir,]] he said, finally. Peskow pursed his lips, nodded, but didn't enlighten him. Instead he said:

[[Well, I've learned a lot about you, Comrade Arntzen. Or do you prefer Krycek?]]

[[I--]] said Alex. [[No, Sir.]]

[['Krycek' is your father's name?]]

[[Yes, Sir.]]

[['No, Sir.' 'Yes, Sir',]] Peskow mocked, gently. [[You sound like a soldier.]]

[[I am a soldier, Sir,]] said Alex. Peskow quirked an eyebrow at him.

[[Soldiers follow orders.]] Alex stared down at his lap, then back up to meet the cool, blue gaze. Peskow nodded.

[[I've had a good, long look at your file,]] he went on. [[Excellent performance records. Marksmanship. Close combat skills. Tactical abilities all of the highest caliber. You certainly have the makings of a soldier. But the rest of it...]] He clucked, shook his head. [[Drunkenness. Illegal drug use. Fighting. Immoral behavior. You're a disgrace to the unit. To the uniform.]]

[[Yes, sir.]]

[[How do you explain that?]]

[[I --- ]] he stopped. [[I have no explanation, Sir.]] Again that considering nod. Peskow tapped the edge of the file idly with his thumb.

"You're an American," he said, in English.

"I --" Alex began automatically, then forced himself back into Russian. [[No, Sir. I'm a loyal Soviet citizen.]]

"Yes, yes. Of course you are," said Peskow, impatiently. "But you were born in America. You grew up there. Speak English, Mr. Krycek." Sudden iron in the pleasant voice and real fear coursed through Alex's flesh.

"Sir...?" he asked. Peskow continued to watch him, coolly. His eyes were very dark, Alex thought, for such a fair-skinned man. They were difficult eyes to look into, more difficult to look away from. Alex felt a shiver roll up the muscles of his back.

"I was born in America," Alex said. "I grew up there."

"At a military base, yes? In Albuquerque, New Mexico?"

"I -- yes."

"Your father was a ranking officer there."

"Yes...how do you kno--?"

"Ah ah ah..." said Peskow, warningly. He opened the file again, frowned into it, looked up.

"So your father was an American Air Force Colonel," Peskow went on. "But his youngest son is a now a Soviet citizen and a private in the Russian army. Remarkable world we live in." And, oh Christ, he wasn't even going to ask, was he. The silence stretched.

And Alex felt cold. So cold. If he unclenched his jaw, his teeth would chatter because he knew now who Peskow was and why he wasn't asking how Alex's life had taken such an impossible jag. He wasn't asking because he already *knew*. Because he was one of them. One of the shadow people like his mother's nameless, smoking friend -- the one who took care of 'problems' like Alex-- men who showed one face to the world and saved their real faces for the real master in the darkness. Or masters. How many shadows did it take to run a conspiracy that encompassed the world's superpowers? Christ, he didn't want to know. Had never wanted to know. It was only his own -- weakness, his own stupidity that had led to his even knowing as much as he did. And now...

"Please," he said, softly. Voice gone nearly voiceless with fear.

"Please *what*?" Peskow asked, mildly.

"Please give me another chance, sir," Alex said. "I don't want...." He didn't dare put words to it, but he knew now exactly what was at stake.

//'Be very careful, Alex," the smoking man had said to him as he stood, miserable, ticket in hand, to board the plane to Moscow. "We will only tolerate so many mistakes before we cut our losses."//

[[I could be a good soldier, sir,]] he said.

But Peskow was shaking his head.

[[Be that as it may,]] he said. [[I cannot reassign you to this unit. Or any other Spetznas unit in the GRU for that matter. The Soviet Army will turn a blind eye to almost any naughty behavior among its special forces -- including a little discreet cocksucking, I might add -- but some things even they consider...]] he paused, then finished, in English: "...beyond the pale."

Alex felt the scarlet flush blossom and die in his face. Embarrassment turned to sudden fury at his own helplessness:

[[What, then?]] he asked. [[Krasnoyarsk? Novokuznetsk? Tajikistan?]] Peskow chuckled, although the laugh didn't quite reach his eyes.

[[I admire your patriotism, Comrade Arntzen, but I'm afraid the regular army is out of the question for a young man with your training. As are the Internal Ministries. We don't share our toys with just anyone.]]

//Then why did you bring me here, you cold-eyed son of a bitch? Why, if it's so goddamned hopeless...// He closed his eyes, then opened them abruptly. Peskow was watching him, eyes distant. Cool, like the night sky. //...our toys...// A cold thought snaked up Alex's spine to curl around his brain like smoke.

[[Your...]] he began -- saw a flicker move across the blandness of Peskow's face, and felt cold again. Burning cold. He was right, wasn't he? This was the marker being called; the shadow reaching out to claim its own. It slipped around him easily as fog.

"What...will I be doing for you?" he asked. Peskow smiled approvingly.

"You are a bright boy," he said. "And talented. And the possibility of alternative...employment does exist. But the work -- our work --requires also a certain temperament. A certain ruthless self-discipline. The ability to follow orders.

"Not exactly your strong suit, Alex." Anger flared at the jibe. At the contempt Alex felt behind the words. If he'd been drunk he might have stood to defend his pride.

//Staying *alive* is my strong suit, you son of a bitch...// But all he said was: "I'll do whatever it takes."

Peskow said nothing. He sat back in his chair for a moment, and then, abruptly got to his feet. Walked around the desk so that he stood behind Alex's chair. He was close enough that Alex could feel his heat, feel the weight of his presence exerting itself like gravity, rocking him back in the chair.

"It might take a lot." Peskow's voice at his ear was soft, a mockery of kindness: "Hard work. Courage." Alex shifted uncomfortably at the man's nearness, but did not dare turn his head.

"Sacrifice." A strong, long-fingered hand wrapped around the back of his neck, making him start. Stroke of a thumb at the nape and Alex shivered.

"Self control..." He felt dizzy, breathless. Was this a trick? A trap? Did Peskow want him to resist? Or respond? He did neither, held himself to stillness, until he felt Peskow watching him again. He looked up expecting to meet the cool, blue gaze.

It wasn't there. Instead what he saw made him inhale sharply with sudden, visceral fear. Peskow's eyes were focused on him with the coldly passionate intensity of a hawk stalking prey. For a moment Alex was paralyzed, utterly frozen -- unable to look away from the terrifying stare. A strange hot shiver moved through him, winding down around his spine to settle heavily in his groin. To Alex's horror, he heard himself whimper softly.

Then Peskow blinked -- once, twice -- and the cold fire was gone. With a gentle shake, Peskow released his neck.

//What happened?// Alex's mind shrieked. //What did he *do*?// But Peskow was already seating himself behind the desk again, his face as bland and pleasant as before, his tone so banal that, when he spoke, it took a moment for Alex to pick the sense from the sound.

[[...quarters, Comrade Arntzen,]] Peskow was saying. [[Pack your things. I will call for you.]]

And then there was nothing left for Alex to do but mumble, awkwardly:

[[Yes, sir. Thank you, sir...]] and back himself out the door, and out into the night to scramble through the empty parade grounds with the shadows between the light poles reaching out for him as he ran.

***

The quarter of the compound usually occupied by Unit Spider was deserted when Alex finally got there. The MP who let him in told him the whole unit was off on a disciplinary mission and he didn't know when they'd be back. Alex was still cold, still aching from the night before. He knew he should pack up and make himself scarce, but it seemed a strange, shivery exhaustion had descended upon him.

He decided he could risk a shower, ended up lingering long under the hot water, wishing the thunderous spray could wipe his mind of the cold hunger in Peskow's eyes. It didn't, and though he shaved in the hot steam and toweled dry, by the time he returned to his billet he was shivering again.

Back in his room, Alex nervously packed and repacked his kit, listening for footsteps to come echoing in the hall. He heard none, and so Dany's distinctive Balkan drawl from the doorway caught him off guard.

[[They sending you back to the range, Cowboy?]]

Alex's breath snagged on something in his chest and he turned with the shirt he was folding still in his arms.

Tall and rangy, Corporal Danylo Neverov lounged in the doorway -- loose sprawl of limbs; long nose, full mouth turned up in a cynical half-smile that showed too many crooked teeth.

The flat, smartass delivery still rang in Alex's ears. He tried to match the tone with a laugh, but it came out strained; short and sharp like a bark and he gave up the pretense.

[[Shit, Dany, I --]] he began. Stopped. Tried to swallow around a lump like a fisted hand that gripped his windpipe, nearly strangled him. Shame pricked the corners of his eyes. What he'd *done*....

And Dany said nothing, just watched him. Even here, even in Russia where men could hug and kiss each other on the cheek and call each other pet names. Even here, there were things men talked about and things they didn't.

[[So what are you doing here?]] Alex said, finally. [[I thought you were out on a 'disciplinary'.]]

[[We are,]] Dany said. [[But I couldn't let my Cowboy go without saying good-bye.]]

[[Don't call me Cowboy,]] Alex said, suddenly irritated. Dany just smiled.

[[You like 'Rocketman' better?]] he said, dryly. [[Or 'Rambo'?]] And when Alex didn't answer, he added softly:

[[Or maybe you want me to call you 'goluboy'? Maybe 'golubaya lenta'.]]

[[Why not just 'petuh'?]] Alex spat. Dany looked at him a long minute and Alex felt the heat rush to his cheeks again.

Knowing this was *nothing* to Dany. Dany was a *man*, not anybody's 'blue ribbon' boy. Whatever he did or didn't feel for Alex, this --what they did alone together -- was no more than a camp fling, something discreet and separate from his real life. At most they were a couple of buddies who did for one another when there were no women to be had.

Yeah, that was them: just a couple of regular guys who jacked each other off with their hands or their mouths -- well, Alex's mouth, anyway. Guys who rubbed against one another until sparks ignited the world like magnesium flares and they came whispering each other's names, but who never fucked, because fucking was something that fags did. And Dany was no *fag*.

But then Dany was pushing himself off the door frame, pulling the door closed behind him. Stepping up to Alex and wrapping long, strong arms around him. Alex struggled a little, not wanting to give into this. Not wanting to let Dany know...

But Dany knew. He held Alex against his chest, stroked the back of his rigid neck in a strange echo of Peskow's earlier touch.

[[I'm sorry, Cowboy,]] he murmured against Alex's hair. [[So, so sorry...]] So clear. Sorry for what was, and for what wasn't. Sorry for what could never be. And Dany didn't know *shit* about what it meant to be sorry, Alex thought angrily. But even so he found his own arms rising automatically to wrap around Dany's waist, pull him closer. To pull in Dany's heat; Dany's scent. Dany's hardness against his own.

[[Moi Cowboy...]] Dany whispered into his hair and after a while the stroking became insistent and the hand on his neck pressed gently, firmly down. Down, down, down and Alex folded slowly, sank to his knees. Unbuttoned and pulled to release Dany's uncut cock, rosy head already peeking out from under the foreskin.

Dany's scent was salty, sharp -- the taste of him acrid on Alex's tongue. But the heat of the living thing in his mouth warmed him through in a way the shower hadn't managed. And Dany's fingers stroking and plucking at his hair felt like love. And when Dany came he called Alex "lublyushka" and his come tasted like something Alex had lost a long time ago, in a grassy place under the stars.

[[Do you want me to...]] Dany asked. And:

[[Please...please...]] Alex murmured, pulling Dany over to lie on the bed. And he hoped this one time Dany would use something besides his hand, or at least touch his mouth to Alex's mouth but he didn't, and Alex came anyway, howling his desolation into the empty air.

***

Trans-Siberian Express somewhere between Chuchkovo and Ilyatsosk   
U.S.S.R. October 13, 1983, 2:14 a.m.

Alex tried not to think of Dany as the train rocked him down into the darkness. He tried not to think of anything at all but it was difficult with no distractions; no company, no view. All darkness outside, reflecting back only the ghost of the train car; ghosts of its passengers. Corpses riding the night train to hell. Stupid thought but he couldn't shake it. His own reflection, eyeless and hollow-cheeked, gave him the creeps: it felt like a vision from his future.

Vodka helped. He sipped slow and often from the bottle he'd bought from the shadow market next car over. A couple of crooked steps above moonshine, the vodka was warm, thick as syrup; strong enough to peel paint, but he wasn't drunk. Not yet, anyway. He didn't even want to be drunk. Just numb. Just...empty.

Emptier.

Fuck. He just wanted.... Just wanted -- what? He didn't even know. He looked around the train car as if he could catch the elusive object of his desire in the act of sneaking out of range. He saw mammas asleep with babies on their chests. Kids playing; kids curled up around bundled sacks. Old men smoking, nodding, playing chess.

Nope. Nothing he wanted here. Nothing back at Chuchkovo, either. Not really. Well, maybe. If Dany could just have....

And there it was again. That vast gap at the end of the thought. Great yawning hole that dragged him to the edge, screaming: I want... I want... I want... and only the barest hint that there was anything besides the void beyond.

Maybe it -- the mysterious *thing* he wanted -- was somewhere back in America. Maybe it was just homesickness after all these years. A longing for familiar places; a desire to go back to a more innocent time and a more innocent version of himself. It might be that --except he'd felt exactly the same way back there and back then.

And besides, he seriously doubted there'd be much familiar left after eight, nine years away.

And, besides besides, the innocence had been a lie.

Christ. Alex let his head fall into his hands, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until they filled with buzzing light. And what the fuck was he thinking about what he *wanted* anyway?

Like what he wanted was going to make a fuck of a difference to the ice-eyed son of a bitch waiting for him in Moscow. And Alex shuddered suddenly at the memory of that terrifying, paralyzing hunger he'd glimpsed in Peskow's eyes. At the sense-memory of how his body had responded to being so hungered for. It made him cold again and he wrapped his arms around himself, pressed himself back in his seat as though he could somehow stop his forward motion. As though he could stop the train from hurtling toward a future where that gaze was waiting to consume him.

But the night train took no notice, just sped along the unbroken stretch of rails that ran through Russia and forever, and never met, not even at the journey's end.

***

End of "Learning To Love The Hawk I: Through the Red Doors"

Stay tuned for "Learning To Love The Hawk II: Gone One Knows Not Where"

 

* * *

 

Learning To Love The Hawk  
Part II: Gone One Knows Not Where  
Disclaimer: None of these X-files characters belong to me, my intentions are entirely gormless. Arkady Renko is played by William Hurt in Gorky Park and belongs to Martin Cruz Smith and Orion pictures.  
Rating: NC-17 for mature themes, sexual situations and violence.  
Spoilers: None  
Summary: The year is 1983; the place is Soviet Russia.  
Author's notes: This is the second part of my origin story for Krycek. It's still not finished but hell, here's what I've got so far....  
WARNING: This is a WIP. Please bear with me, I'm still dancing as fast as I can.  
Archive: Not yet.  
Technical note: [[Dialogue in double square brackets is being spoken in Russian,]] and: "Dialogue in double quotes is being spoken in English."  
Thanks & Acknowledgements: To Nonie above all for keeping the flame alive on this one and also Jessica Harris for kind words and some inspirational writing.  
Feedback: uh-huh, public or private, to Spike 

* * *

Vassily Peskow's apartment  
Garden Ring district  
Moskow, U.S.S.R  
January 3, 1984

Alex blinked at stars inside his head. The slap had caught him totally off guard, snapped his head around so fast his neck tendons pinged.

"You do not disobey me, Alex," Peskow said. His voice was soft now. Heat was beginning to rush back into Alex's face in the shape of the old man's hand. His own humiliation. Rage. He opened his mouth to protest and Peskow slapped him again. Backhand this time, other cheek and heavy knuckles impacted the bone hard enough to knock him back a step.

"I said 'don't speak'." Peskow's voice still soft. In the three months since Alex had come to live in Peskow's private apartments, training under his watchful eye, Alex had yet to hear him raise his voice in anger. Like he couldn't be bothered to waste his breath... Alex's teeth ground together hard.

"You fucking son of a--" Iron fingers drove hard into his solar plexus and Alex crumpled to his knees. Agony so cold he thought he was going to lose control and nothing could get air into his lungs. He closed his eyes, folded in around the pain to protect himself from the follow-kick that never came.

Heavy boot heels walked away across the creaky floorboards. Leaving him there. Leaving him to die. Fucker. Fuck. Alex wanted to pound his rage into the floor with both his fists, wanted to scream, spit --pulverize the old man, shove him up against the wall and slam and slam...

He gasped, gulped at air -- against his will. It hurt so *much*. Wheezing gasps brought only tiny lungfuls. Not enough to live on, but his body kept on trying. He heard the footsteps again but couldn't turn his head to look. They didn't come near him. Creak of Peskow's chair, the dull clink of a gun being dissassembled. The smell of gun oil. His own wheezy, gurgling breaths. The room was so quiet every sound seemed rimmed with gold. Alex's vision still blurred with tears of pain and rage took in the swath of faded carpet under his knees, the wedge of matte gold sunshine. Somehow it seemed unearthly beautiful. This wasn't fair.

It had been such a little stupid thing...

Peskow wouldn't even have known about it if Alex hadn't told him. And what was it? Nothing, a little rough trade. A little hand to mouth. Peskow already knew him for a whore, had sent him out to catch that cop's -- Renko's -- attention in the first place. He'd only done his *job* if it came to that -- so why this *bullshit*. Alex managed a deeper, sobbing breath, raised his head. The room tilted roughly and he sagged back onto his heels.

Because he'd 'disobeyed'. Because Peskow's precious orders had gone unheeded, for once.

Get him away, Peskow had said. But don't get close. He mustn't be able to identify you later. But Peskow hadn't been there, had he? For a middle aged man, the cop had been fast. Enough to keep Alex within sighting distance every second of his pursuit. And persistent -- through the fucking knee deep snow, across the train tracks, into the park. And Alex getting tired (and lost as the trees got thicker, though he'd never tell Peskow that) and the cop still dogging him, closing. He'd made his choice where the woods got deep.

//Turned and stopped, breathing hard, hands on his knees, as if ready to run again. But no intention of running. He could, he knew, take the man down with two quick blows. Even kill him, he supposed. It was what he'd spent the last four years learning how to do. But that would not have done. And besides, the cop had stopped when he stopped, stood there watching him in the fading light, ragged puffs of steam rising to envelope his head.

//"What do you want from me?" Alex had called over to him. The cop had merely laughed. He was not so old, Alex realized now that they were closer. And the bulk was mostly coat and muscle, not desk-fat. He was city militia, not KGB. But he was not acting as he should.

//"I wanted to find out why you ran", the cop answered. His Russian was aristocratic, as was his angular face, blonde hair.

//"I ran because you chased me," Alex said.

//"Are you a criminal? the cop had asked. "Are you carrying stolen goods?" He still seemed to be laughing, not taking this seriously at all. Russians, Alex thought. All of them bug-fuck nuts. But he didn't think he believed it of this one. There was a look there, familiar as his own face in the mirror. Alex felt himself stir under the cold, thin denim of his pants.

//"Why don't you come and search me," he said. And watched for the spark of fire in the other man's eyes. There? Not there? Hard to see in the deepening twilight, and there was a beating in it or worse if he'd judged wrong.

//"Turn around," the cop said, motioning with his head. "Hands against that tree." Alex had felt his heart kick, and turned his body slowly, not taking his eyes off the cop, even as he leaned against the tree. Rough cold bark under his fingers and palms. The sleeves of his too small jacket rucked up on his wrists. He was bareheaded, underdressed for the Moskow winter in his knock-off jeans and plastic-soled shoes. The sudden warmth at his back nearly made him writhe with pleasure. Large, strong hands ran his ribs, hips, thighs. Brushed light and hot along his obvious arousal. Heat of a warmed body in an open coat and the unmistakeable brush of hardness against his ass and this time he did writhe, pressed himself back shamelessly.

//Rabbit punch to the kidneys drove him hard against the tree. He scraped his chin going down as his knees gave out. Alarm bells ringing too late in the wreckage of his head, and he was yanked back by his collar, spun on his knees. Cold wetness of snow soaking through, right to the bone maybe.

//Big hand grabbed his head, rubbed it hard against hard heat of the man's groin -- coarse wool of his pants, clean smell of bleach and aroused man underneath. Alex aching despite his fear. Because of it. The hand tightened in his hair, too long now, by half --pulled his head back hard. With his other hand the cop opened his fly, pulled himself out. Pale violet wand against the melding darkness of the woods -- his cock was long and slim, steaming in the cold air.

//"Take it," he hissed. "Go on..." Alex opened his mouth and was impaled. Choked. The long cock slipping past his teeth, down into his throat in one smooth thrust. Alex gagging, tried to pull back but the big hand held his head. Thrust deep and hard, battering, tearing at him. Sputtering and choking, tears running from his eyes. He clutched at the cop's coat, hands spasming wildly unable to hold still. The big hand held him while the cop pulled back just far enough for Alex to grab a ragged gasp of air. Then thrust again, impaling him -- hard and fast. Deep into his throat, he felt the tissues swelling sending little rivulets of sickly-sweet pleasure through his limbs. The pressure grew. Hard as rock in his thin, tight pants and he dropped one cold frantic hand to struggle his fly open, shove his hand to take himself.

//Ratcheting up and up as he struggled to catch breaths between rounds of thrusting. Never *enough* air and the night had starting to grey and sparkle at the corners of his eyes. And still the cop kept on and on and Alex found himself rocking, rocking and suddenly up on the edge of someplace wonderful and dark. And suddenly higher still and coming hard enough to crack bone, split stone, head bursting, pouring out his cock. The night world gone from grey to sparkling black. Swallowing and drowning, come rushing up to fill his sinuses, full his lungs. Big hand still holding his head and he was going to drown in come and cock and he didn't even care.//

Alex found the pain had lessened somewhat, he could manage enough air to feed his starving muscles. He struggled up onto his knees again.

"It was dark," he blurted out, his voice so odd and raspy he sounded like an old man. "He won't remember me."

Long silence, but the quiet clank and scratch of gun-cleaning stopped. Alex closed his eyes, wondering if the bullet would come now. The gentle touch of fingers on his head took him by surprise. He opened his eyes to find Peskow leaning over him, brushing his long hair out of his eyes.

"He'll remember you," Peskow said, and his other hand moved and Alex saw the gun and blanched with sudden, depthless terror. But Peskow's palm was open on the butt, holding the gun out *to* him, not *at* him. The old man's expression almost tender as he spoke words that Alex knew almost before they were even said:

"So now you will have to kill him."

***


End file.
